The Trials of Solitude
by Dragon's top hat
Summary: During Holmes's world traveling hiatus, Watson was left grieving for his friend. Perhaps he was not the only one hurt by the forced separation. And maybe, just maybe, the great heartless machine isn't as heart less as Watson thought.
1. Remembrances

Authors note: It should be stated I am not the owner of the characters with in this small work of fiction. That privilege belongs to those far more clever then I. I should also like to point out that it was not until I had finished writing this that I noticed it seems ever so slightly inspired by a story I had to read in english called "Dog Star" by Arthur C. Clarke. It was completely unintentional, please do not eat me alive for it. That how ever is a rather remarkable story and I highly suggest you read it if you ever come across it. And if I wasn't completely clear in my little teaser, this is taking place during the great hiatus. I would say about a year after "The Final Problem".

* * *

Holmes curled himself upon the rough blanket of his small bed. The small inn in which he was staying for the moment was drafty and unwelcoming. The entire room seemed to be filled with the despair and hopelessness he, himself, was feeling. Holmes longed for the comforts of his home, of Baker Street. The warm fire crackling in the hearth, the clean smell of his soft sheets, the rumble of coaches and the general upheaval of London. He missed the sights, the smells, but above all else he missed Watson. The way his smile would make his eyes seem to shine. His stead fast resolve and fear of nothing. The way he would always be there when Holmes needed him most.

Holmes needed him now. He needed him more then he cared to admit. He needed Watson's reassuring hand upon his shoulder and the gentle twinkle of his eyes. Even Watson's excessively romantic scribblings would be a welcome relief from emptiness Holmes felt burning inside him. Watson had been Holmes's rock. The one he could always turn to and trust above all else. But the most important thing, and the things Holmes missed the most, was the companionship and devoted friend Watson was. Without him, Holmes just felt lost. As though a vital piece of him self had left with Watson at Reichenbach. Holmes rolled over restlessly.

"It's for the best." Holmes said to himself, though in his heart he didn't believe it.

"Watson would be in constant danger if he stayed. He has Mary to think of. He's happily at home with her. They might even have a child." Holmes smiled to himself at the thought of a small Watson running about.

"He deserves that happiness. He deserves the devotion and love of a wife and child. How could you even think he would put all that at risk to go running about with you?" Holmes tried desperately to block out the painful truths his mind was spatting at him.

"You never showed him any of the devotion and caring he deserved. He would never chose a scrawny little detective, who's incapable of even protecting himself, over a loving family and a long, constant, happiness." Holmes reeled upon the bed. He was desperate for the words to not be true, but they were. They cut him deeply and he choked back a small silent sob.

"You deserve to be alone."

The last mental barb hit home directly and as holmes felt a single tear roll from his cheek to the pillow he made a silent wish. He wished the tomorrow we would awaken in Baker Street, Watson sitting at the table reading the paper and sipping his coffee. He wished he would be able to tell Watson of the cruel tricks his mind had been playing on him. He wished for one more chance to tell Watson how very much he meant to him. Deep inside Holmes knew that he would get no such miracle. He would awaken in the small dismal room with the same emptiness where his Watson used to be.


	2. Waking up

"Holmes," called a familiar, gentle voice. "Holmes, you must get up. We are going to miss our train." Holmes opened his eyes to a small sliver. The room was blurry and out of focus, and white spots danced in front of his eyes. But no matter how blurry, there was no mistaking the silhouette of his dearest friend.

"Watson!" Holmes cried as he sat bolt upright. Watson carefully dodged Holmes's head and smiled down at the detective.

"Of course, Holmes. Who else could get you out of bed? You know Mrs. Hudson refuses to even try any more." Holmes just stared at Watson for a moment, not truly believing what he saw.

"Watson, I had the most terrible dream - "

Watson cut him off with a raised hand. "You can tell me every last detail on the train, but first, get your lazy self out of bed. Then get dressed and pack your things. We have to be in the country by nightfall, and our train is leaving soon." Watson smiled and Holmes did as he asked, swinging his legs off the bed and untangling himself from the warm sheets. He let out a small groan as he stretched his long frame. Watson's eyes twinkled with silent laughter.

"Now dress your self, or I shall be forced to drag you to the station in your nightshirt." Watson chuckled as he turned about to offer his friend some privacy. Holmes smiled to himself as he pulled off his night shirt. Watson wasn't about to leave the room and let Holmes slip back into bed. He had done the same to Watson many times before. The irony seemed lost on Watson as he checked his pocket watch.

"I recommend you slip your nightshirt into you your bag. You may want it on the train," Watson said over his shoulder.

Holmes smiled as he briskly straightened his shirt cuffs. "You can look now, old boy. I'm decent."

Watson turned round and met Holmes's smile. Holmes noticed an odd glint to Watson's blue eyes but failed to place it.

"Grab your bag then. We must be off," said Watson, a sense of urgency more present in his voice. Holmes bent to collect his bag when a strange, yet slightly familiar, scent met his nose. He straightened up.

"Watson, have you been smoking?" Holmes asked, absently closing the fastening his bag.

"Sorry, old boy. I was a bit restless last night. I'm sure it will be clear long before our return." Watson's voice was becoming more urgent with each passing second.

"It smells nothing like your usual brand of tobacco, Watson," Holmes said, ignoring him.

"I was simply trying a new brand, Holmes. Its nothing. Please." Watson's urgency was giving way to begging but still Holmes pressed on.

"In fact Watson, it smells distinctly like - " Holmes said as realization dawned upon him.

"Holmes. We must leave!" Watson said in a strained and pleading voice.

" - smoke from a house fire," Holmes finished. The look of shock and understanding on Holmes's face pushed Watson into action.

Watson pulled the blanket from the bed and threw it over Holmes. Taking a firm hold on his shoulder, Watson growled, "I am getting you out of here. Now!"


	3. Into the Fire

Holmes felt the reassuring hand upon his shoulder and looked out from under the blanket. Watson's face was stone set and filled with the purposeful fury he had seen on several of his more dangerous cases. He gave Holmes's shoulder a small squeeze and spoke.

"Now Holmes, you're going to be fine. You'll get through this like you do everything else."

Holmes gave a small nod.

"We, Watson," He corrected, "we will get through this like we always do. As a team." Watson gave a little half-smile, worry still pressing upon his face.

"Of course Holmes. I'll be with you every step of the way," said Watson gripping the door knob tightly with one hand, and Holmes's shoulder with the other. Both men took a deep breath of the now slightly smoky air and the door was flung open. The world on the other side was chaotic and unfamiliar, but with a reassuring tug, Watson guided Holmes into the fire.

* * *

The hallway, if it was still distinguishable as such, was dark and so thick with smoke and heat that it seemed to be transformed into the very mouth of hell. The air scorched the lungs and the devouring flame danced about wildly, consuming everything in sight. The light they held cast strange, deceptive shadows about the place. The fire crackled and snapped into a deafening symphony of destruction so that no voices can be heard anywhere else in the building.

Watson gave Holmes a guiding push into the chaos. The smoke was blinding and Holmes could barely make out the walls surrounding him, let alone deduce the way to safety. Sensing Holmes's hesitation, Watson pulled Holmes close.

He lifted the blanket from Holmes's head and with his warm breath tingling the skin on Holmes's ear, said: "I'll get us out. Trust me. Now keep your head down."

Then Watson pulled the blanket down forcibly and guided Holmes on through the dark maze of smoke and heat. They went through several smoke darken halls and around still burning chunks of rafter. Watson leading from behind with a gentle and reassuring hand. As they made their way through the darkness, Holmes mused upon the irony.

Just that night he had felt abandoned, but his Watson always seemed to be there right when Holmes needed him most. Just as he always was and as he always would be. The two rounded a corner and were greeted with the soft glow of light from an open door up ahead. Watson gave Holmes's shoulder one more squeeze as if to say, "I told you I could get us out." Although Holmes had never doubted his Watson for a second.

It was then, with the lull of safety so mind bogglingly close, that a sickening crash came from above, followed by the sound of wood splintering. Watson gave Holmes a hard push forward, toward safety, as a heavy piece of rafter came crashing through the ceiling.

Debris fell all about the detective, littering sparks and small tongues of flame like rain. The blanket Watson had thrown over him protected Holmes from these smaller offenses but when a larger piece fell through, he was struck with no small amount of force on the head. His vision swam as Holmes fought to find some trace of Watson through the smoke and ash.

"Watson!" Holmes cried desperately.

No response.

"Watson! Please!"

Still nothing but the sound of the fire around him, consuming him. Holmes could feel the ash, smoke and heat stinging at his eyes, making it even harder to see. He wouldn't turn away, he couldn't, not without Watson. Another ominous sound from above pushed Holmes from the inn.

Holmes took a few stumbling steps before a strange hand closed about his shoulder.

"Oh, Mr. Sigerson! I am so very glad you made it out," said the duplicitous little man to Holmes's right.

Holmes took a step back from the strange man and spoke in a hurried and frantic manner. "What of Watson? Did he make it out?"

A rather large and worn looking woman stepped up beside the little man and spoke in a soothing, motherly voice. "What are you talking about sir? There wasn't anyone else in there but you."

The look that accompanied these words was far from new. It was the look of concern and incomprehension that Mrs. Hudson would give him after a particularly large explosion or when a more dangerous case brought him home rather bloodied. Holmes hated that look; it always made him feel like a foolish child that had just been caught doing something he shouldn't be.

What on earth was going on. Watson had been there, he had seen him, felt his hand upon his shoulder. There was no way a man such as Watson could avoid being seen by everyone and then simply vanish into thin air. It just wasn't done.

"Unless," said the nagging, cruel voice in Holmes's mind, "he was never there to start with."

Holmes shook his head in an attempt to throw the voice from his mind, but it held fast.

"Think about it, detective, the one thing you wanted more than anything suddenly and without proper cause happens. That isn't the least suspect? You know as well as I that Doctor Watson is safely and happily in London."

Holmes turned round sharply, turning his back on the people of the inn who where giving him strange looks. For once, Holmes desperately wanted that cruel little voice to be right. He wanted Watson safe and far away, no matter the pain it caused him. At least this way he would have Watson to come home too, one day.


	4. Epilogue

"To Holmes, Mycroft:

Was fire at inn STOP Am safe and moving STOP Will send word when things more stable STOP Please care for watson STOP SH FULL STOP"

Mycroft turned the small telegram over in his hand absentmindedly. It was the first time in three months Sherlock had bothered to contact him. He knew Sherlock was dodging the remaining members of Moriarty's gang but this was the first he had actually bothered to let his elder brother know he was still fine. What was even more curious was the last line. What could possibly have perturbed his brother so that he should feel the need to mention the doctor at all? Mycroft mused on the idea for several minutes before sending for the footman on duty. He took a small piece of note paper from the table and scribbled down a note.

He then handed it off to the footman saying, "I want you to take this down to Cavendish Place and give it to a Doctor John H. Watson, alright? Also tell the cook I'll be expecting a guest at dinner tonight."

The footman nodded and left, his heels clicking ever so slightly upon the floor. Mycroft locked the telegram from his brother away in his drawer and settled down for a nice nap before dinner.

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Author's note: Thank you so much for all of your kind reviews and for taking the time to read this. I really appreciate all for your support.


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